


He's Having My Baby

by YumYumPM



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M, Marriage of Convenience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:38:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts when Napoleon dreams that Illya is having his baby.  In actuality it ends with Illya fathering Napoleon's baby. You've probably read mpreg stories before - well this isn't one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Having My Baby

“I’m Pregnant.”

Oddly enough it wasn’t so much the words themselves, outlandish as they were, nor the matter of fact way in which they were said, that brought one of April Dancer’s eyebrows up and her search for an empty table in the crowded lunch room to a sudden halt. It was the who.

“Watch it, Luv,” Mark Slate chided, as he nearly collided with her sending his meal sliding on his tray.

Ignoring the Brit’s complaint, she maneuvered around him to set her tray down at the table occupied by U.N.C.L.E.’s top two agents. Tilting her auburn head to one side, she slid gracefully into a chair next to Solo, her brown eyes glinting with amusement. She leaned forward; her voice lowered so as not to be overheard, and asked the man on the other side of the table, “Did I just hear what I thought I heard?”

“How nice of you to join us,” Napoleon Solo tossed out, his smile charming, but disappointment at the intrusion clearly visible in his eyes.

April was taken aback but decided to ignore the look of as well as the hint of annoyance in his voice.

“What was it you heard?” Mark inquired lightly, sitting across from her at the table.

“I could have sworn I heard Illya say…” she paused dramatically, her eyes held a hint of mischief directed at the Russian-born agent sitting quietly across from her,--“I’m pregnant.” 

Mark raised an eyebrow as he digested that morsel of information, then without missing a beat offered, “Congratulations. Who knocked you up? Napoleon?”

When Napoleon Solo stopped choking on his sandwich, he scowled at his partner who deliberately fluttered his eyelashes coquettishly back at him.

“It was just a dream. A stupid dream,” Napoleon replied with exasperation as he pushed his plate away, no longer hungry.

“Do tell me more,” April purred as she snapped her napkin, smoothing it on her lap.

Napoleon glowered and looked skyward while Illya leaned forward conspiratorially, both elbows resting on top of the table.

“Evidently it appears I am … with child.” Illya’s eyes glittered with amusement as he began to relate the details of the conversation he and Napoleon had just had. Mark and April exchanged odd looks, then turn their attention back to the storyteller. “And when Napoleon finds out about it he gets very upset…” Illya stole a glance at Napoleon who was showing obvious signs of discomfort with the direction the conversation was taking. He thought about dropping the subject, but couldn’t miss the chance to tease his partner about something so out of character. “…because he’s not the father.”

Mark and April burst out laughing, causing people sitting nearby to look their way while Illya smiled contentedly. 

When Mark finally caught his breath and could talk, his curiosity got the better of him. He looked across the table at Napoleon. “So who is? The father I mean.”

Napoleon turned sideways in his chair and scowled, not even bothering to answer.

April pressed her lips together, in a vain attempt to keep her giggles at bay. Her mind shifted through the list of possible candidates, as if such a thing were possible. Her gaze stopped briefly on her partner. Now if this were her dream… a snigger nearly erupted as she did her best to erase the ridiculous thought from her mind. Trust Napoleon to have such an unusual dream. 

“I’m not really into dream interpretation, but the meaning seems perfectly obvious to me.” She paused, dispensing as much sincerity into that statement as possible and waiting until everyone’s attention was focused on her. Then she let a sly grin escape. “You’re in love with him.”

She was pleased that her little joke went over well - Illya and Mark choked on their food. Napoleon, however, didn’t seem to enjoy the humor of the statement. He simply ran a hand across his forehead, making it hard for April to tell if he was embarrassed or merely annoyed. 

When the laughter died down somewhat, Napoleon curled his upper lip in disgust. “Ha ha. Very funny. I’m glad I could make your day amusing.” He pushed away from the table, with as much dignity as he could muster. “I, unlike some people, have work to do.”

Three pairs of eyes followed him, as Napoleon tossed his tray down with a bit more force than necessary.

“What’s his problem, mate?” Mark asked.

Illya shook his head and went back to attacking his food with a vengeance, Napoleon and his dream already pushed to the back of his mind.

April’s gaze was more thoughtful. Perhaps there was more to Napoleon’s dream then he realized.

***  
One Week Later

It had to be kismet, Napoleon thought as he settled the phone receiver back onto its cradle. His face drained of color, so much so that when Illya entered just moments later he couldn’t help but notice.

“Something wrong?”

Napoleon debated telling him, remembering the last time he’d told Illya something of a personal nature and Illya felt free to share it. This, however, was too much to keep to himself. Unlike that time, this wasn’t a dream that would go away.

“That was…ah…Clarice on the phone.” Clarice, young, beautiful, and alluring, had become involved with them on an assignment just a month and a half ago. Dark hair, hazel eyes, she was one of the many innocents that they’d inadvertently involved in their Affairs over the years, no different than Jill, Susan, or Cecille, or Cathy. And Napoleon being Napoleon had felt it his duty to show her a good time, something he often did. She was someone to enjoy for the moment before moving on to the next female.

“Oh. How is she?” Illya asked dismissively, going through the filing cabinet.

“She’s pregnant.”

Illya’s head popped up. There was a long pause and Napoleon could see the wheels turning inside the blond’s head as he filtered through the facts and came up with at least one possible conclusion.

“Why did she call you?”

So he wants confirmation. Napoleon’s memory shifts back to their one night together. The slinky black dress she wore. The bottle of fine wine. Clarice’s soft purrs, her subtle encouragement. Coming back to the present and tilting his head to one side, he managed a pointed look. Does he have to say it in words? Why else would she call?

“Ah! Oh.” He could actually see the light bulb going on in Illya’s head. He waited for some caustic remark, the silence uncomfortable, as Illya mulled over the information. “Um …I thought you used protection?”

“It busted.”

“Ahh.”

The silence stretched as Napoleon massaged the sides of his forehead in an effort to ward off the headache that threatened to overtake him. At least Illya wasn’t laughing.

“What are you going to do?”

Napoleon dropped his hands and sighed, before giving an honest answer, “I have absolutely no idea.”

***

Two days later Napoleon was still trying to digest the bombshell Clarice had hit him with, wrapping his around the fact that he was going to be a father! In spite of all the women he’d had over the years, nothing like this had ever happened. He was usually so careful. It never occurred to him to deny responsibility, but another part of him feels…trapped. Thankfully, the ringing of the phone saved him from further thoughts.

“Mr. Waverly would like to see you in his office a. s. a. p.”

“I’m on my way.”

The order held a sense of urgency about it, a possibility of action that left Napoleon feeling a sense of relief. If he was devoting his time to an assignment he wouldn’t have time…at least he could put Clarice’s problem on the backburner for a while.

Alone in the elevator, even though he had intended not to, he couldn’t help thinking about Clarice and the baby. Clarice had been more than just a bit hysterical when she informed him of her predicament; in fact she hung up on him. He hadn’t been sure just what it was she expected of him. Now after he had had time to think things over she had proved elusive, which puzzled him. She was not taking his calls and he worried that she might contemplate doing something foolish, may have already done so, and his stomach twisted. 

The elevator door slid open and he spotted Illya up ahead and hurriedly caught up. “Going my way?”

Illya halted and waited for Napoleon to catch up. “I see you too were summoned. I detected a note of towering rage.”

“What for? We haven’t done anything. Or have we?” Napoleon frowned, his forehead furrowed, just before stepping through the doorway with Illya a half a step behind him as always. Two more steps forward and they both come to a sudden halt. 

For Napoleon, it wasn’t the stern visage of his chief Alexander Waverly or the presence of the head of U.N.C.L.E.’s medical, Dr. Voss, that cause him to pause. It was the sight of Clarice sniffling into a handkerchief then dabbing frantically at her eyes. His eyes widened slightly, as he wondered what she was doing in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, in Alexander Waverly’s office. A glance at Illya, whose eyes were narrowed, showed that he was wondering the same thing, 

“Have a seat, Mr. Solo,” Waverly ordered curtly.

Napoleon instantly obeyed, a sinking feeling developing in his chest. 

Illya stayed standing, his hands resting on the back of his chair. He appeared hesitant about being included in this meeting. Napoleon could not find it within himself to blame him; after all he was in no way responsible for whatever problems this was going to create and Napoleon was sure there would be some.

“Mr. Kuryakin, please sit down,” Waverly ordered irritably, surprising them both. Once Illya complied, Waverly continued, “Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin. I’m sure you’re both well acquainted with Miss Delahai.” 

Napoleon did his best to ignore Clarice and focus his attention on Waverly, whose sharp eyes seemed to be watching for signs of discomfort in his agents. 

“Miss Delahai…” Waverly dropped his gruff attitude to nod politely toward her, his voice softening noticeably. “…contacted our organization recently about her…er…pregnancy.” 

His eyes under brushy brows glared directed at Napoleon and he was pleased to note that his agent had the decency to squirm. “She feels that, given the circumstances, she will be unable to…er… support a child on her own and is insistent that the U.N.C.L.E take financial responsibility…”

Napoleon straightened in his chair like a shot, stung by the accusation, to cut short Mr. Waverly’s explanation. “Wait a moment here. I never said I wouldn’t support…” 

“Darling, you know good and well there is no way with the type of job you have…” Clarice interrupted, managing to avoid his demanding glare. A soft cough from a nearby chair distracted them both.

“Perhaps it would be best…” Illya rose from his chair, ready to make his escape. “…if I leave.”

His request was ignored as everyone began talking at once, Napoleon insistent on knowing why Clarice had refused to take his calls and Clarice haughtily denying the fact that she had. The noise level grew to almost ear-splitting proportions before Mr. Waverly resorted to pounding on the table with his pipe in an attempt to get everyone’s attention. 

“Sit down!” Waverly roared, catching everyone by surprise. Once everyone was again seated and quiet reigned, Waverly leaned back in his chair and used his pipe as a pointer to ask, “Am I to take it, Mr. Solo, that you are willing to claim responsibility for this…this…” Words failed him.

“Of course I take responsibility,” Napoleon confirmed heatedly. He turned to Clarice. “Financial and otherwise. Even marriage…” he cringed inwardly at what he was suggesting. “…if necessary.”

“Oh, Napoleon!” The flow of tears stopped long enough for her to coo in delight.

Dr. Augustus Voss, having been mostly forgotten by the room’s occupants, cleared his throat bringing everyone’s attention to him. “There are a few points that require consideration.” He waited, letting that sink in before he continued. “Once Miss Delahei’s condition is verified…”

“Just who are you?” Clarice tossed her head, her eyes flashing angrily, snapping. “Are you calling me a liar!” 

“Not at all,” Dr. Voss assured her. Once she’s settled down he continued. “It’s merely a matter of substantiating your assertion as to who is the father and as the Chief of Medical for the U.N.C.L.E. it is my duty to ascertain the truth.”

The silence stretched out as his words sank in. Everyone’s reaction to his statement was a little different. Napoleon puzzled. Clarice astonished. Illya thoughtful. Waverly, who knew what was coming, merely took the time to place more tobacco into his pipe and light it.

Illya was the first to react. “Dr. Voss, are you implying that Napoleon might not be the father?” 

“As you are undoubtedly aware, U.N.C.L.E. has up to now put up with Mr. Solo’s many peccadilloes.” Waverly sorted through the documents inside the folder in front of him, found the relevant information, and twirled the table top, letting it stop in front of his top agent. “Our tolerance was based on …well, as you can see, according to your medical records - you, Mr. Solo, are shooting with blanks.”

Napoleon’s eyes glazed over. He stared with disbelief at the paper while Illya snatched it away and pulled it closer to his face, rereading the wording to see if he’d read it right. 

“He’s sterile?” Illya looked up, his face registering his complete shock.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this…but, Mr. Solo, you are indeed sterile,” Dr. Voss confirmed solemnly.

‘Sterile,’ Napoleon mouthed silently. As the implication of that announcement sunk in, Napoleon looked from Dr. Voss to Waverly to Clarice. “Well, if I’m not the father, who is?” 

Clarice cast a surreptitious glance Illya’s way before turning her gaze away, her face a bright red.

“Illya!?” There had to be some kind of mistake. Napoleon turned in his chair casting a disbelieving look at his partner waiting for confirmation or denial. It didn’t make any sense. Illya preferred his women shy and brainy, everything Clarice was not. 

Illya avoided looking at Napoleon. When he finally spoke his voice carried a tinge of exasperation. “It was just the one time.”

“Once is quite enough,” Waverly broke in to snort dryly.

Clarice’s sniffling brought everyone’s attention back to her. Her reddened eyes shot daggers at Illya. In a haughty tone-of-voice she declared, “Napoleon was prepared to offer me marriage.  
What are you prepared to offer?”

Illya looked down at his hands. Twisting the ring that graced his left hand, he remained silent. 

“I’m afraid marriage is out of the question, my dear…” Waverly spoke for him, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “Mr. Kuryakin’s commitments are elsewhere.”

Napoleon was stunned. It never occurred to him that the band of gold might be for real. For Christ’s-sake it even changed hands from time-to-time. He had assumed, obviously erroneously, that it was a ploy to keep women at bay. 

“We don’t even know if the child is mine,” Illya countered desperately. Denial seemed the only option open to him. “For all I know… if she slept with me and Napoleon she could have slept with anyone.”

“I did not! It has to be yours. There is no one else’s it could be,” Clarice snapped back, well on the way to hysteria. She rose from her chair and began angrily pacing the floor behind it. “I refuse to have this baby alone. If I have to I’ll get an abortion!”

“What you are proposing is illegal,” Waverly snapped. “As for Mr. Kuryakin’s involvement…”

“A blood test will confirm, but it will have to wait until the baby’s birth,” Dr. Voss contributed.  
The venom in her voice had snapped Napoleon out of his guilty thoughts. The relief he’d just started to feel over not being the responsible party left him. Okay, so the child wasn’t his. It could, however, be his partner’s. Most certainly not something easily discarded. He rose from his chair, tapped Illya on his shoulder to get his attention, and canted his head toward one corner of the room. When Illya reluctantly complied, he asked quietly, “Were you expecting this?”

Illya glanced back at the round table and the people gathered there. The sigh he let out, along with the negative shake of his head, said it all.

“Illya, you cannot let her do it.”

“There’s nothing I can do to stop her.” He unconsciously continued to twist the ring on his finger, thinking of the marriage forced upon him before he left for the Sorbonne. The one that made it possible for him to work in the United States without fear of being called back to the land of his birth.

“It would appear that there is nothing more to be said,” Clarice informed Waverly angrily and headed toward the door. She had been so sure that Napoleon was the father, that the revelation that he was not tossed her thoughts of holding U.N.C.L.E. responsible completely out of her head.

Napoleon was torn…there had to be something he could do. “Clarice!” 

She paused just as the door slid open and turned. Without thinking it through, he covered the distance in an instant. He reached over, took a deep breath, swallowing his pride and gathering her hand in his. “Marry me?”

“Napoleon!”

“Mr. Solo!”

The sharp cries in stereo should have made him pause. Instead, Napoleon just looked deeply into Clarice’s eyes. All he knew was that something inside him wouldn’t let her discard the child, especially if there was a chance it might be Illya’s. 

“Yes. Oh, yes!” Clarice breathed happily as she flung herself into his arms. It was just that easy.

***  
One Month Later

“This is ridiculous. You don’t need to do this,” Illya hissed as he helped Napoleon on with the vest of his tuxedo.

Nervously Napoleon checked, realized it was on backwards, and experienced a moment of déjà vu. “It’s all wrong,” he muttered as he took it back off, reversed it, putting it on correctly. Then he focused his attention on his partner.

“Yes, I do.” I do. Oh, god. Napoleon took in a deep breath and reached for the jacket. In just a few moments there would be no turning back. “We’ve been over this. You can’t marry her and I’ll be damn if I let her destroy your child. Flesh of your flesh, blood of your blood.”

“We are not even sure that it is mine.”

So engrossed was he in making sure his clothing was straight that he almost didn’t notice the look of guilt on Illya’s face. A look that said ‘Do not sacrifice yourself for me’. How could he explain that it wasn’t really much of a sacrifice? That now that he knew there would be no little Solos running around, and not by his choice, he just couldn’t let the same thing happen to Illya. His impulsive decision seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Placing a hand on Illya’s shoulder, he said softly, “But, what if it is? It’s a chance I cannot, dare not, take.”

 

Everything had happened pretty fast after the scene in Waverly’s office. The next thing he’d known was that there was an announcement in the paper saying that Clarice Renee Delahai was fiancée to Napoleon Solo. As shocking as it had been to read, finding out that Clarice wanted to go all out with a big church wedding, twelve bridesmaids, the works, had been even more appalling. 

Waverly disapproved of the whole marriage. When he realized that Napoleon was serious about going through with this, he had taken matters into his hands and convinced Clarice that a smaller, more intimate wedding would be for the best. After all large weddings took time, money, and planning, and unless she was willing to announce to all and sundry that this was a shotgun wedding it was best to keep things quiet. It was bad enough that he was losing his best agent to a desk job.

Clarice had begrudgingly curtailed her plans to include only one bridesmaid, one best man (Illya of course), a Justice of the Peace, and plenty of flowers. The one thing she hadn’t given in on was the white wedding gown. 

“It’s time, Gentlemen,” the Justice of the Peace announced catching both men’s attention. Napoleon squared his shoulders, took in a deep breath, and proceeded to count backwards from ten. 

***  
Six Months Later

Six months into the marriage things had changed for Napoleon Solo. None of them were for the better. A day or two into their honeymoon, Napoleon’s communicator had gone off. Mr. Waverly was apologetic, but the assignment was too important and no one else could do it. In a way it was a relief. The two days he and Clarice had shared were enough to convince him that, in the long term, the magic of their one night together was not going to be repeated.

Napoleon found himself on the other side of the world working his ass off to save it, while Illya, also working on the same assignment, was on another continent entirely. Napoleon couldn’t help feeling that if they’d at least been on the same continent that they would have wrapped up the whole thing up earlier. 

At least trying to stay alive had kept him from thinking about Clarice, or pretty much anything else for that matter. It was as if she didn’t exist: their marriage didn’t exist. That made him feel guilty so to make up for it, once he arrived back at headquarters he made a quick stop to the medical section, threw together the most cursory of reports, and he rushed home to his apartment. Clarice’s welcome had been less then cordial. When she saw the damage he’d acquired, her reaction soon turned to fury with her yelling and screaming, “How could you!” and “Don’t you realize you have a family to support!”

Behind his back, Clarice went to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters where she somehow managed to corner Mr. Waverly and demand that Napoleon Solo’s name be pulled off the active agents list. Waverly, who normally could not be intimidated, found her ranting and raving so tiring that he caved in. 

Napoleon, when informed of the change in his status, was dumbstruck. He had never seen his chief so incensed. In the beginning, he thought it a temporary thing, something to mollify Clarice until she got over her snit, but after a month or so and nothing changed, Napoleon got the message. This was to be permanent. Things at U.N.C.L.E. went downhill from there. Former fellow agents shunned him; others teased him about being pussy-whipped, neither of which he enjoyed.

The biggest hurt was that he was no longer in the loop. There were times when Illya, along with another agent, left on assignments where Napoleon felt his special expertise would be perfect and he ached to be out there with them. Then he would look at Clarice’s bloated belly, watching as she got bigger and bigger and the child inside her began to move and he remembered just why he gotten himself into this mess. 

His home life wasn’t much better. He couldn’t even say he loved her since he never had, and she knew it. 

***

Sitting in his new office, Napoleon let a sigh of frustration escape him as he pulled yet another file from the large pile sitting on the corner of his desk.

“Care to go some place for a bit of liquid libation?”

Napoleon looked up. Standing inside his doorway was Illya, a slight smile on his face. A white sling was a distraction from his usual black turtleneck, dark slacks, and maroon jacket. 

Napoleon sneaked a quick look at his watch as he reached for the phone. “Sure, why not? Let me call home.” 

“Boy does she have you trained.” 

Napoleon glanced up to catch the humor glinting in those blue eyes. “Ha, ha. Very funny, IK.” 

Illya had already turned away, muffled laugher following in his wake as he called out behind him, “Meet you downstairs.” 

Maybe things hadn’t changed that much after all, Napoleon thought as he dialed his home phone number.

***  
That Evening

Napoleon’s head rested against the back of the second-hand sofa in Illya’s studio apartment while music sounding vaguely Russian played gloomily in the background. The place was small by his standards, but Illya contended given what that as little time he spent there it was more than adequate. His third glass of scotch hung dangling from his hand between his spread legs. It had been a good while since he’d had some time together with Illya. 

Turning his head, he looked over to where Illya leaned against the wall next to the stereo system. His eyes were closed as he let the music flow through him, relaxing him, and he was still nursing his first and only glass of vodka. Illya drank alcohols other then vodka; in fact, he wasn’t choosy, although vodka was his favorite. He did, however, draw the line at drinks with little umbrellas in them. That was why they had ended up here, in Illya’s apartment. The bar they’d stopped at was having a theme night and tropical drinks were the main feature. 

Napoleon was developing a slight buzz; one that he knew would turn into a nasty headache the next day and for no reason that he could think of left him thinking strangely, mostly about his life, and how it wasn’t going the way he had envisioned it. He tried to focus, mostly on Illya, his partner, actually now his former partner. Neither of them had spoken since leaving the bar and Napoleon felt one of them should make an effort, so he ventured with, “What happened to your arm?”

Startled out of his revere, Illya opened his eyes. He lifted his arm, cradled in the sling, and looked at it as if just now becoming aware that it is there. With a shrug he removed the sling, tossing it to one side. 

“Nothing of importance,” the unassuming answer was accompanied by a small, but slightly embarrassed smile. 

Napoleon accepted that statement with an answering smile. Injuries were par for the course with U.N.C.L.E. Without thinking he twisted his head from side-to-side, working out the kink that settled into his neck. Being here with Illya was comfortable and for the first time in a long while, Napoleon felt relaxed. He used to be comfortable in his own home, but not anymore. 

“How are things at home?” 

The question coming from Illya caught him out in left field. Strange that Illya still seemed to pick up on his thoughts, his words nudging Napoleon in a direction he wasn’t ready to deal with and didn’t want to go. How could he explain that at his apartment, his sanctuary, he felt like a total stranger? How someone was sleeping in his bed while he was relegated to a spare room, all because any movement made Clarice nauseous.

He couldn’t help thinking that life as he knew it was now officially over. Gone were the nights of enjoying a variety of restaurants, going to plays, and flirting with women. The life where a night on the town included entertaining a different woman every night and actually having fun. Shit. Napoleon was feeling sorry for himself and he felt that he shouldn’t. However, he craved human contact, for which he has no outlet, but he had made his bed and knew he had to lie in it. 

There was just no way to really answer Illya’s question. Draining his glass he caught an expression on Illya’s face he’d rarely seen, except once in a while on assignment. Worry.   
Before Napoleon could open his mouth to ask why, Illya’s tongue came out to lick his lips nervously and Napoleon suddenly found that action fascinating.

“Has anyone told you how kissable your lips are?” The words slipped out of his mouth before he realized it.

Illya’s eyes narrowed.

Leaning forward and pinching the bridge of his nose, Napoleon tried to apologize. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s just that…” he knew he’d had too much to drink and should probably keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t. “of all the things I miss most a little lip action is at the top of the list.” 

“You two don’t kiss?” Illya sounded serious, but the corners of his mouth twitched and Napoleon could only think that, thank god, Illya found his excuse amusing.

“She’s seven months pregnant and never in the mood. What do you expect?” Napoleon used his hand to indicate a mound on his stomach. Though the truth was they hadn’t done anything remotely intimate since their interrupted honeymoon. Clarice didn’t want to kiss. She was too tired for sex, not that he was all that interested. She always felt too ill to cook, too tired to clean the apartment. That left pretty much everything to him. He held out his glass, silently asking for a refill. This would make his fourth but he wasn’t counting.

“Hmm, I see your point,” commented Illya dryly, tilting the bottle to pour more. “Why don’t you find someone else to take care of that problem for you?”

Napoleon blinked. What on earth was Illya suggesting? His thoughts were fuzzy, just this side of inebriation. He thought about it. Find someone else to fix what problem? The cooking, the cleaning or the…. ? Napoleon shot up off the sofa and almost fell over. “What! Have an affair?! ”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

“Impossible. What kind of man do you think I am?” Napoleon scowled indignantly, then he stood up tall or at least tried to. Just the thought that Illya could think that of him left Napoleon incensed.

Suddenly Illya was standing nose to nose with him; his chin tilted defiantly upward and he said just one word. 

“Horny.” It wasn’t a word Illya normally used.

Napoleon wanted to shake his head in denial. But Napoleon, being Napoleon, couldn’t very well do that. Ever since he was fourteen, Napoleon’s sex drive had been a tad on the high side. Then he noticed the smile that started small and slowly turned into a grin on Illya’s face. Soon Napoleon couldn’t help responding; he started to laugh along with his friend. Lightheadedness caught him by surprise and he lost his balance, starting to fall backwards. Illya reached out, catching him with his one usable arm, using his considerable strength to pull him upright. The inertia pulled them together and before Napoleon could think about it, their lips touch. 

It was as if an electrical charge flowed through them. Illya let go releasing him, and Napoleon found himself falling backward again, landing sprawled upon the sofa. Suddenly neither of them was laughing any more. Illya’s eyes widened, the dark pupil eclipsing the blue iris. It wasn’t as if Napoleon had intended for that to happen, but since it did… He pulled himself up from the sofa to gather Illya to him, well aware of the tenseness of Illya’s body. Illya’s mouth dropped open, whether to protest, Napoleon didn’t know and didn’t care. The memory of their brief touch was with him and he desperately wanted, needed that feeling again. 

Taking Illya’s lack of resistance as a good sign, Napoleon laid claim to that open mouth, determined to show the Russian what French kissing was all about. He didn’t dare remove his hold, fearful that Illya would slip away. Illya remained unmoving, not making a move, his arms dangled passively at his side. It was possible he was in shock, a condition for which Napoleon couldn’t blame him. 

All Napoleon could think about was that Illya was correct; he was horny without any source of relief in sight, except for his own hand. Releasing one hand, he stroked himself, confirming the situation, and the back of his hand accidentally glided across Illya’s trouser front, feeling a corresponding hardness. By god, was it possible that Illya was horny too? Excitement tingled through him as he let his hand press just a little bit harder. Yes, there was definitely a reaction. 

Breaking the kiss, Napoleon leaned back just a little to catch Illya’s reaction. Illya’s eyes were closed and he was making this soft noise almost a humming sound. Somewhere in the back of Napoleon’s mind he knew he had stepped over a line. But right now he just couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d had too much to drink and for just one night he wanted to give in and enjoy himself. For just one night.

***

“Arghhh.” Napoleon groaned softly, his head pounding with a throbbing headache, fully expecting to find himself alone in the spare bedroom of his apartment as usual. Granted the mattress was not the most comfortable in the world, but it felt a little lumpier than usual. His eyes opened as he tried to remember the sex-laden dream that woke him up. The lights were still on and it turned out that the lump was Illya and they were splayed out on the sofa of Illya’s apartment. His heart skipped a beat as he remembered his fantasy dream and he came to a realization that it wasn’t a complete fantasy after all.

Napoleon was alarmed to realize that he didn’t remember exactly what occurred. Strangely enough, they were still fully clothed, but the stickiness to his groin area inside his boxers was a sure sign that something untoward happened. Slowly he removed his hand from where it lay beneath Illya’s neck to check his watch. Two-thirty. Am or pm? 

Gingerly Napoleon sat up and looked down at Illya, who continued to sleep soundly; blissfully unaware of what had transpired. Though, maybe not, Illya had not had as much to drink as he had. How was he going to explain it to Illya? What would Illya think of him from now on? As quietly as possible, after a quick trip to the bathroom, Napoleon made sure the apartment was secure before slipping out the door. 

It wasn’t nearly as difficult as he imagined when he returned home. Clarice was a sound sleeper. Never before was he so relieved that they slept in separate beds. That was not how he thought marriage was supposed to be, but Clarice made the rules and he had to live with them or suffer the consequences. She had made it clear early on that she would have had no compunction about ending the life of the child within her. It did not matter that the threat was no longer real.

Napoleon didn’t recall ever feeling this shaky or weak when he’d still been in enforcement. They’d been in a lot of tight spots together, but none had ever left such feelings or such an odd sensation in his chest. He couldn’t decide whether it was guilt or shame. Shame because he was a married man, something he was still trying to wrap his mind around, or guilt because he had just had sex with someone who was not only not his wife, but supposedly committed to someone else, though he’d never found out to whom. Not to mention that, technically, it wasn’t sex the way he was used to, so maybe it didn’t count. Making excuses wasn’t cutting it. Deep down he knew he’d crossed a line and there would be no going back. The memory of the kisses they’d shared kept him awake. After pounding his fist into his pillow, he eventually drifted off into an uneasy sleep, feeling he’d done something to Illya that could never be forgiven.

***

The next few days his unease only improved marginally. He was on his best behavior around Clarice, thoughtful and attentive, so she had nothing about which to complain. At work, he sequestered himself in his office, having his calls screened and not even coming out for meals. He couldn’t bring himself to face the issue of what he’d done to Illya. Not with-but to.

On one of his rare forays out to answer nature’s call, he stood at the sink, the water flowing. The door to the washroom opened and his hand froze in the act of reaching for the handle shut the water off. In the mirror, he saw reflected the image of his former partner. Stern blue eyes bore into him making his blood run cold. Somehow, Napoleon managed to keep the expression on his face neutral, determined not to show fear. 

The reflection vanished and he heard the click of the lock. Unable to tear his eyes away, he watched with trepidation as the mirror image strode up behind him, those blue eyes never leaving his. Napoleon had faced down many a Thrush agent without dread but turning to face Illya proved the hardest thing he’d ever done. Bracing himself, he turned to face the music. 

He didn’t know how to react when Illya gripped him by the shirt front and dragged him into a vacant stall. Napoleon cleared his throat ready to apologize when Illya shocked him by suddenly dropping to his knees. Napoleon’s jaw dropped as Illya unzipped his trousers, reached inside, and his fingers gripped him, making him hard. He held his breath when Illya’s tongue lapped at the head of his dick-before his mouth surrounded it. The shock of it almost mitigated the pleasure. Almost. Napoleon had to clamp his lips together, barely able to hold back the whimper that escaped as he came, his knees buckling. Thank goodness the door was locked. 

That Illya was not skilled in this was plain; Napoleon had enough experience himself to know that. That he even attempted it was a puzzle. The fact that he made an effort had Napoleon stumped. Illya rarely showed an interest in sex. When Illya was done, he rose upward, his blue eyes intense as they held Napoleon’s gaze. 

“Eight o’clock. My place. Be there.” The timbre of his voice held a husky roughness, the words without a doubt an order, and then Illya turned on his heels and was gone. 

Napoleon stood where he was for what seemed like an eternity, unable to move, awaiting the moment his heart would once again start beating normally. Finally he was able to gather enough nerve to return to his office. His first thought was about reporting an Illya double on the loose, but then he’d have to explain why he thought so and that wouldn’t be prudent. Taking deep breaths to calm himself, Napoleon wondered when and if he’d gone mad, because despite everything he was planning to beard the lion in its den.

***

Napoleon stood in front of Illya’s apartment door, wondering what the hell he was thinking, what the hell Illya had been thinking. He took a couple of deep breaths, his hands clinching and un-clinching as he debated going through with this. To be on the safe side, he patted his jacket over his holster repeating to himself ‘I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent. I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent.’ Was, he remembered with a sigh. He took another deep breath and knocked.

“Come in. The door is open.”

Napoleon resisted the urge to draw his gun. There had to be something wrong here. Despite the fact that Illya was expecting him, there was no way he would just leave the door to his apartment unsecured. Just as there was no way that he would give a blow job in an U.N.C.L.E. restroom. His cock twitched in memory and he looked down willing it away. Now was not the time to think about that. The door slowly opened to his touch. When there was a gap wide enough for him to slide through he did.

Locking the door behind him, Napoleon squinted as he looked around the dimly lit room. Next to his stereo, adjusting the volume stood Illya, dark reading glasses covering his eyes, a small glass of port held aloft in one hand. Déjà vu hit Napoleon. Dark slacks, a white button-down shirt gaping invitingly open at the neck topped off with a dark colored dressing gown. Where had he seen that get-up before? Ah yes, during The Recollector’s Affair, Illya had donned a similar costume during that charade.

Illya finally looked up, fake surprise showed briefly just as it had back then, and he whipped off the blue-tinted glasses he wore. Why the pretense? Then he flashed a rare smile and politely offered his glass. “Would you care for something?”

Napoleon was speechless. Illya was acting too calm, too politely ingratiating, and the perfect host. Then it hit him. That’s what Illya was doing – acting. Two could play that game. He boldly walked over to Illya to retrieve the drink being poured and ask pointedly, “Where exactly did you learn to suck cock?” 

If the question shocked him, Illya didn’t let it show. Pausing to take a sip of his drink, Illya returned the dark glasses to his face before replying. “A small matter of research.” This was followed by a grim chuckle. “You’d be surprised by the sort of information you can come across from Section IV." 

Napoleon choked on his drink. “You didn’t!”

“You know how I like to have all the facts in hand before I do something.”

Napoleon found it disquieting to know that Illya might have used U.N.C.L.E. resources to research something like that. What really disturbed him was that he had no idea what Illya was thinking of…or why.

He didn’t have long to wait. Illya pulled the sash that held his robe closed, letting it drape open. “Time for a little pay back.”

Napoleon licked his lips nervously as his eyes traveled down to Illya’s crotch and the obvious bulge contained in the thin pair of slacks. Illya couldn’t possibly be serious! His eyes rose back to Illya’s face, seeing a look of grimness on it. Evidently he was. His eyes traveled back down to Illya’s crotch and he swallowed hard. 

He wasn’t going to do it, he wasn’t going to do it, Napoleon kept telling himself even as he dropped to his knees. He took a few moments to gather his nerve as he stared at the belt buckle in front of his face, and then willed himself to undo it. Sliding the zipper down, he gnawed at his lower lip and watched as a lump in Illya’s trousers began moving, growing. He reached in and pulled the swelling bulge out. By doing so he did something he’d never done before – touch another man’s dick. Only for Illya would he do this, he thought grimly. He hesitated not sure he could go through with it. 

A sudden intake of breath caused him to look upward. Illya’s head was tilted backwards, his mouth open, his eyes shut. That look settled Napoleon’s resolve and he licked his lips, ready to return the favor when he felt himself being pulled up by the shoulders of his jacket.

“Why are you doing this?” There was torment in Illya’s voice, surprising Napoleon even as he found himself flung backwards to sprawl across the sofa arm. 

“You asked me to.”

Technically Illya hadn’t asked him to do anything. It had simply been implied. Then it occurred to him that maybe that wasn’t what Illya was asking. Was Illya asking why he’d masturbated him that night? Or why had he married Clarice? That led him to a question of his own. Why had Illya sucked him off in the men’s room? Then it hit him and he felt like he’d been sucker punched. Illya must have thought he needed it and had gone out of his way to offer himself up as a sacrificial lamb, but with one hell of a price tag.

For the last six months, Napoleon’s life had been shit, except for the one night that he’d gotten together with Illya. Scrambling up to a standing position, he removed the glasses that covered Illya’s eyes, seeing concern, caring, and longing. Smiling, Napoleon gathered Illya’s face in his hands and dropped a chaste kiss on his forehead, before dropping down on his knees to take Illya’s cock firmly in hand. He wasn’t quite sure how good he would be at this, but he was going to give it his best shot.

From the noise Illya began making Napoleon figured he was doing a good job, and to tell the truth he’s enjoyed doing it. He found interesting ways to use his tongue, then Illya started tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention and he chose to ignore it. He continued to suck until a gush of fluid invaded his mouth and slid down his throat. He swallowed the last bit remaining as he let go of the now limp dick, savoring the taste. 

Doing his best to control a smug smile, Napoleon put away the new object of his affection, turned his eyes upward, and caught an expression that held a mixture of regret and resignation. Regret was the last thing Napoleon wanted Illya to feel. Rising to his feet, Napoleon took Illya’s face between his hands, and gently kissed his lips. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he whispered. 

“How can you be so sure?”

Suddenly it hit him that everything he’s been looking for all these years is staring him in the face. Considering that he’d already opened his heart to Illya’s child, opening it to Illya wasn’t that much of a stretch.

Illya’s hands rested on Napoleon’s wrists, his forlorn smile mirroring Napoleon’s thoughts. Because try as he might, Napoleon couldn’t bring himself to be happy about the situation. Love between two people of the same sex was not exactly approved. Plus he wasn’t really sure how Illya felt about this. His reluctance must have communicated itself to Illya, because he sighed heavily, rolled his eyes and took Napoleon by the hand and led him into the bedroom. The butterflies in his stomach gave way to excitement; after all, Illya had gone to all that trouble to do research.

***

A month had gone by since the birth of his son and Napoleon marveled at the changes in his life. Some for the good and some not so good. While their time together had been limited, Illya and he had discovered a new-found sexuality, some of their efforts bringing about laughter as they explored a vast variety of techniques. When Illya had aptly demonstrated the correct use of his prostate gland, Napoleon thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

His whole attitude had changed, he’d actually been happy for what felt like the first time in his life, so much so that Clarice had noticed. She had accused him of having an affair – with another woman. Something he’d happily denied. He wasn’t sure she believed him, but it didn’t matter. Clarice was too far along in the pregnancy to do anything about it.

Then the big day finally arrived. They’d rushed to the hospital, Clarice screaming at the top of her lungs. Relegated to the waiting room with the other fathers Napoleon put in a call to U.N.C.L.E. and left word for Illya. After all, the child was possibly Illya’s by blood. Then he sat down to wait, wondering if he was ready for this. Raising a child. Had he done the right thing? Then Illya had shown up, just as the nurse had informed him that Napoleon was the father of a healthy baby boy. One look at Illya’s face and Napoleon knew he had made the right decision.

Insisting that Illya come with him, he’d entered Clarice’s room with a bouquet of roses. Clarice, of course, had not been pleased. 

“What’s he doing here?’ she’d snarled, nodding toward Illya.

“He is the father,” Napoleon reminded her as the nurse brought in the child. “At least that is what you claimed.”

The nurse had a funny look on her face as she handed the squalling baby to his mother. Clarice took one look at the scrunched up red face and pushed the child toward Napoleon with a careless. “Here you take him.”

Napoleon took the child, frightened that he might drop him. Illya shook his head, took pity on Napoleon, and removed the baby from his grasp, serenely cradling him in his arms as if he did this sort of thing all the time. The crying had stopped and Napoleon looked down into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen staring up at his biological father.

“What are you going to name him?” Illya asked.

Napoleon turned out of consideration to Clarice, who shrugged, her expression clearly saying ‘whatever’.

One arm went around Illya as Napoleon held out a finger to the child and a quirk of a smile crossed Napoleon’s face. “I thought we might name him after his father. Nickovetch Richard and call him Dick.” His eyes lit in amusement at the inside joke that he thought Illya would catch.

Without thinking he pulled Illya closer, proud when the child, his child, grabbed his finger and brought it to his mouth. The next thing he knew a plastic pitcher of water was flying through the air narrowly missing both him and Illya. He turned to see Clarice, her eyes blazing with fury, scream. “You fucking faggot! How dare you! You’re nothing but a goddamn queer! A pansy. To think I married you! I’ll put the kid up for adoption before I let you raise him.”

Napoleon had automatically moved so he was between her and Illya, who had the baby clasped to his chest protectively, the shock of her words hitting him like an anvil as she continued to utter obscenities. He’d never considered himself any of the things she was calling him. It just happened that the person that had finally captured his heart was a man …oh boy, was he ever in trouble.

“Someone get a nurse in here. With a tranquilizer.”

Napoleon’s head jerked towards the doorway, inside which stood Alexander Waverly, his face as red as Napoleon had ever seen it.

“Calm down, young lady!” Waverly commanded as he stepped fully into the room. He turned to his two agents, shooing them out. “It might be best if you got the little one out of here.”

Napoleon was never quite sure of what happened next. He had his suspicions, but he’d never had the nerve to ask. The next time he saw Clarice, she was being released from the hospital. She’d smiled at him and said rather sweetly, how nice it was to meet him, but she was going to be late for her flight. She was sorry they couldn’t get to know each other better. It reminded him of the time that Marla had been given a whole bottle of capsule B’s.

“Napoleon?”

His name, softly spoken, brought Napoleon out of his reverie. He tested the temperature of the milk on his wrist, making sure it wasn’t too hot and carried it into the other room where Illya sat in a rocking chair, softly serenading the bundle in his arms with a Russian lullaby. Napoleon couldn’t help shaking his head at the sight. Who would have thought that someone with the capabilities to seriously damage an opponent could be so tender?

To both their surprises, Waverly had taken charge, making sure that legally everything was in order. Despite the dark hair the eyes, which remained a startling blue, proved, at least as far as Napoleon was concerned, that the child was indeed Illya’s. Waverly somehow managed to have the marriage annulled and custody of the boy child awarded to Napoleon. Once a blood test verified that the child was indeed Illya’s, Waverly had also arranged for Napoleon and Illya to move to into one of the apartments in the brownstones that surrounded U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, having two apartments remodeled into one. Napoleon had been reinstated as head of Section II, on limited assignments. On standby, across the hall, were any number of baby sitters to watch over and protect Nicholas Anthony Solo-for Illya had firmly vetoed Napoleon’s choice of names-whenever they were gone.

Yes life was good. It had taken some adjustments, but the worst that had occurred was that they had been required to take parenting classes. If anything else they worked harder than before because now they had someone for whom saving the world was important. What they would end up telling him as he grew up, about their jobs, their relationship…well they’d figure that out as the time came. In a warped way it was as if his dream had come true. He now had Illya and while Illya hadn’t actually given birth, he’d given him a baby.

 

The End


End file.
